


Hand Of Fate

by lzrd



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Backstory, Bad Business Decisions That Turn Into Really Excellent Ones, Destiny And Related Forces, Gen, Hope He Got His Money Back On That Plane Ticket Tho, My First Fanfic, Shit’s Expensive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:07:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1218835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzrd/pseuds/lzrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Charles Offdensen gets a backstory, and Dethklok gets a manager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand Of Fate

 

He’d always had a strong sense of purpose as what many consider to be a central character trait, but in the days immediately leading up his fateful encounter with Dethklok, Charles Foster Offdensen experiences an inexplicable, almost magnetic pull that apparently seems to be drawing him in the exact opposite direction of his intended path, a business conference that could well make his career. What the strange impulse is leading him to he’s unsure, but he’s never been one to dismiss things he couldn’t explain.

Charles has had the plane ticket to California booked for nearly a year; he calls from a truck stop halfway to Florida to cancel it.

By the time his dusty car pulls up in front of the dingy practice space containing the sum of what is soon to be his future (minus one) he’s considered turning around and finding a psychiatrist back home a handful of times. It’s clearly the sensible thing to do considering this break in logic Charles has recently developed in regards to sleepless cross country road trips where the caffeine to shower ratio is alarmingly high. But he’s determined to see this out now that he’s been indulging it for days, so instead of peeling out of the parking lot like his pounding heart wants he steels himself and steps out of the car.

Looking up at the outside of the building does nothing to assuage the bizarre terror pooling in Charles’ gut. It seems to loom over him in the way that hospitals do to people who are dying or cemetery gates do for the superstitious. Still, he presses on, swinging the heavy front doors open.

He finds himself in a dingy reception area, or what used to be a reception area before it was reclaimed by squatters and graffiti artists. It’s slow going picking his way through the trash, and hearing guitars in the distance he measuredly works his way towards them, careful not to injure himself in the dim light.

Finally Charles finds the source of the music and realizes he’s not alone. It’s a large room and the debris has been cleared in a large swath in the center to make room for the five men and their equipment. A drum set and pile of speakers take up the most space, and the men are crowded around the drums and the redhead asleep on them, apparently occupied with trying to wake him up. The one with long black hair, easily the largest of the group, is poking the sleeping one sharply in the face and grunting, but to no avail. Two men with curly brown hair bicker loudly off to one side while the last, a blond, looks on while strumming his guitar indifferently. Charles watches them silently for a moment and is struck unexpectedly with an odd sense of fulfillment.

“Who ams that asshole?”

Ah. Shit. The blond seems to have noticed him, and at his shout the rest of the band now does as well. Even the drummer has woken up to turn and look at him in unison with the rest.

“Yeah who the fuck are you, _dick._ ”

Now the beefy one speaks up and moves to the front of the group, fixing Charles with a suspicious glare. Suddenly finding himself the subject of five stares, Charles is self-conscious. Shifting under the attention he figures he must make a sight to see these men with his expensive suit wrinkled to hell and his greasy hair and bloodshot eyes.

“My name is Charles Offdensen.”

“Yeah? Well, Charlie ya better give us a good reason yer here before we kick yer ass.”

The words rise unbidden to the front of his mind in startling clarity, and he hears them in a voice that isn’t his. He would like to examine them in greater depth before even considering speaking them aloud but five pairs of eyes are latched onto him, watching expectantly. As the words spill out, Charles Offdensen resigns himself to his fate.

“I’m, ah, your new manager.’


End file.
